


The Killing Moon

by Argyle



Series: House of Dracula (Fearful Symmetry AU) [3]
Category: Dracula & Related Fandoms, Dracula (TV 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Animal Transformation, Biting, Blood, Blood Drinking, Blood and Violence, Domestic, Edwardian Period, F/M, Fake Science, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Gaslighting, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, M/M, Major Character Injury, Multi, POV Alternating, Post-Canon Fix-It, Recovery, Telepathic Bond, Vampire Sex, Whump, Wolves, grievous bodily harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:22:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27392644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: Agatha adjusts to her newly undead state while Jonathan reclaims his place at Dracula's side. Life at Carfax takes on a tentative harmony—only to once again be shattered when Dracula is grievously injured, leaving Agatha and Jonathan struggling to decide whether to flee, bite the hand that made them... or hold it. (Continued AU branching off from Episode 1.)
Relationships: Agatha Van Helsing/Jonathan Harker, Dracula/Agatha Van Helsing, Dracula/Jonathan Harker, Jonathan Harker/Mina Murray
Series: House of Dracula (Fearful Symmetry AU) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1682920
Comments: 42
Kudos: 75





	1. Chapter 1

_"It's a question of who you'd rather have tear you apart, I suppose."  
(Dracula: The Rules of the Beast)_

England, 1907

_Open your eyes._

Consciousness comes upon her slowly, shifting, concentrating, like granules of dew that collect into droplets on the back of a leaf.

_Open your eyes._

She is aware of the close, hard walls which encase her. And this is a coffin. She is aware of the full length of her body and recognizes its coldness as well as its wonderful, remarkable new energy. And this is because she is dead, and also not dead at all. She is aware of the thump, thump, thump of a heartbeat—

_Open your eyes._

—which is in fact not a heartbeat, but rather a pocket watch, for so too she can hear the clink and clatter of gears propelling the tiny hands round the clockface, second by second, minute by minute. She listens to it for a long time, unmoving, enjoying not having to think of anything beyond its metronomic pulse.

Then she sucks in a breath – the sensation of air filling her heretofore inanimate lungs is odd, but not unpleasant – and opens her eyes.

Bright, too bright light assaults her vision, and she blinks back tears until her pupils adjust, and she is likewise distracted by a scuffling to her side, and the words, "Patience, Johnny," and suddenly, she _remembers_.

She's Agatha. She's Agatha Van Helsing of Amsterdam, first born child of Gerhard and Elisa Van Helsing, former sister of Saint Mary's Convent in Budapest, scholar and scientist, philosopher and metaphysician. She's a thinker. A wanderer. Ever determined. Undiminished by the matter of her sex alone. Perhaps, at times, foolhardy. Willing to put herself in harm's way when she's in sight of getting what she wants—and oh, how she's spent her years _wanting_.

On quiet nights, when she poured herself a mug of strong tea and the smell of old parchment filled her nose and the scratch of her pen against her a page was the only sound to be noticed—well, such things sufficed to fill her crown to toe with a tingling pleasure akin to ecstasy.

She's acutely aware that she's now more herself than she has ever been. And also nothing at all like herself. The potential for power, for violence, sits within her like a tightly coiled spring. She's strong and capable, and her stomach churns with a hunger she dares not name—not yet, not without her diary close at hand to denote each acuity, impulse, and sensation.

She was fifty-seven years old at the time of her death.

And at fifty-seven, she is newly born.

And now she groans, remembering the rest: Count Dracula and Jonathan Harker and the hand they'd each had in utterly, irrevocably shifting the trajectory of her existence. The anticipatory resignation of her final days. The realization that Dracula had lied to her; that he hadn't killed Jonathan. The sting of Jonathan's fangs in her throat, followed by the unexpected sensuality of him draining her—

And after that—what exactly? Had there been anything at all?

She isn't sure, and yet the name comes to her easily: "My God," and she's immediately startled by the clear, cool timbre of her own voice.

Delighted, velvet-soft laughter hits her ears in return. Then a face shifts into view. _Dracula_. It takes Agatha a long moment to focus on him, to parse out his features, his glinting eyes and wide, grinning mouth full of too-sharp teeth. Jonathan stands behind him, his own face lean and sallow, so different than when she'd first encountered him the night of her lecture at the Old Vic—and yet also perhaps better now than a few hours ago. Belatedly, she understands why this must be so.

She's happy to see him. Glad he's _here_ with her, because despite everything, the simple fact of his presence is a comfort.

He gives her a sad, gentle look as she sits up, but it's Dracula who speaks first, "Welcome, my dear Agatha. Welcome." And his lips are no cooler than her own hand when he kisses it. No less smooth.

*

Agatha is no stranger to risk. She's spent so many years bucking against the expectations of a society that didn't understand her, immersing herself in topics both strange and forbidden. It was a small wonder that her Mother Superior at St. Mary's allowed her to carry on as she did, conducting all manner of experiments in the cellar so that she might better, at long last, understand the nature of the world... though of course Mother Superior had no real inkling of what it was that Agatha sought.

The evil she willingly courted.

And that which answered her call.

It seemed like fate when, years later, she found herself in the presence of an actual _vampire_ —and not only: how it had thrilled her to discover that Jonathan Harker was an acolyte of the infamous Count Dracula.

She did everything in her power to get closer to Jonathan. And what luck that he was receptive to her inquiries! How he'd welcomed her friendship and the openness of their dialogues. How relieved he'd been to have her extract his blood by the vialful under the not wholly deceptive pretext of scientific discovery.

Oh, she _cared_ for him. She empathized with his struggle and his plight—and the unhappy manner in which he'd been transformed. Certainly, she did.

But it likewise made her wonder what it might mean to instead go willingly. By then, she was her own experiment in name as well as practice; she tasted Jonathan's blood for the simple need to see what the result might be, only to become quite captivated in documenting the minute changes taking place within her: vision which got a little clearer, spots on the backs of her hands that faded and eventually disappeared altogether, hair that grew in chestnut-colored when for so long there had only been greys.

Agatha never thought herself a vain person; but she was a person, and thus capable of vanity.

And then there were the _dreams_ —

When Dracula came calling, she knew that were she a normal, well-adjusted sort of person, she would have been rightly terrified. But she'd long ago given up on normalcy. 

Likewise, she knew she'd be a fool to resist taking what followed, the crux of which was unequivocally her life's work, to its logical conclusion.

The pain of immanent death became just one more consequence to examine. Even as she was left at Dracula's mercy, eating his food and drinking his wine; playing against him at chess, and sometimes winning; growing weaker by the day while locked away by his hand... studying him as he studied her, she knew that she did not wish – not really, no more than fleetingly, as with a fever that rises and breaks – to be anywhere else.

To _be_ anything else.

So in the long hours that Dracula spent away from her, she often sat by her room's solitary window and let the cool autumn light stream over her body; the form which had served her well for so many years, but which was now failing her—

And she bid farewell to the day.

*

Dracula is careful, almost tender, as he helps Agatha from the coffin. He's still smiling broadly, with genuine pleasure. Admiring her. Drinking in her astonishment. While Jonathan stands to his side. His fists clench and unclench, and he clearly wants to move, to reach out to her, just as he glances at Dracula for permission.

The sight makes Agatha ache. Though he'd given her a stilted, abbreviated account of his months in captivity, she doesn't truly know what Dracula did to him—but by God, she's going to find out. She steps between them to take Jonathan's hand, press it between both of hers, before pulling him into an embrace. It takes a moment for him to relax into her arms.

And suddenly, she senses _more_ of him, an expanding boundary of self, the feather-light touch of his mind against hers. It's odd, as if she isn't alone within herself. 

But then, perhaps she should have expected such a thing: she'd long speculated on the connection Jonathan described sharing with Dracula. And then again, Jonathan's blood runs through her veins just as Dracula's runs through Jonathan's. They are all bonded, each to each.

"Yes," Jonathan whispers to her now, his voice still rough with disuse. "I am sorry for what has happened to you, Agatha—for what I've done. But we do at least have each other."

She wants to tell him not to worry, that it isn't his fault. That she'd started down this path years before she ever met him. That her turning had been inevitable. But Dracula catches her eye. He's watching them so closely and carefully that Agatha at once understands what a moth must feel like when caught beneath a naturalist's glass. And so she leaves it at this: "I know, Jonathan."

"Wonderful. What endless fascination to see two of my creations interacting in such depth, interlacing so quickly," Dracula singsongs, clapping his hands together before setting one on each of their shoulders, pulling them both toward him. "Simply wonderful."

And Agatha is aware of him too. The weight of his touch, the closeness of his body. The wild, animalistic musk which clings to him like a cloud: so earthy and rich and masculine that it shocks her to realize she'd never noticed it before.

Dracula's grin widens. Had he heard her thoughts as well? She simply doesn't know, even as he continues to speak. "Now: we haven't much time left before you two need to tuck in for the night, but I do believe refreshments are in order. Johnny, be a dear and pour us each a glass from the bottle on the table," he instructs. And then, with rather more menace than mischief, "And Johnny: I know you're still quite peckish, but there will be absolutely no sampling of the draught until we've had our toast."

A shadow seems to pass over Jonathan's face. But then he bows his head and follows Dracula's command. Agatha watches curiously as he uncorks the bottle and with shaking hands decanters it into three crystal goblets—

And oh, the _scent_ of blood impacts her nostrils from across the room. Sweeter than the finest perfume, richer and more enticing than her most well-remembered childhood meal. She had no idea, no real _concept_ of what it was like for them... For Jonathan. For Dracula.

What it could be like for _her_.

And she can almost weep when Dracula takes two glasses from Jonathan's hands and presses one into hers. Her fangs – by God, she has _fangs_ – throb in anticipation, but she schools herself, steadies her grip and willfully does not bring the luscious, ruby-red liquid to her lips. She did, after all, spend several decades of her life beneath a nun's habit. She knows well enough what it means to have patience. Also: Dracula is still eyeing her.

"Johnny and I don't normally go in for formality," he says, eventually. "But an occasion such as this only happens so often. Agatha Van Helsing: welcome to my house. Although you may not have entered it freely, I trust you will be compelled to stay, partake of my hospitality, and impart us with some of your wisdom."

Then, with solemnity: "'Be near me when my light is low, when the blood creeps, and the nerves prick and tingle; and the heart is sick, and all the wheels of Being slow. Be near me when the sensuous frame is racked with pangs that conquer trust; and Time, a maniac scattering dust, and Life, a Fury slinging flame. Be near me when my faith is dry, and men the flies of latter spring, that lay their eggs, and sting and sing and weave their petty cells and die. Be near me when I fade away, to point the term of human strife, and on the low dark verge of life the twilight of eternal day.'"

The lovely, lilting recitation of Tennyson leaves Agatha wide-eyed with bewilderment. But so too somehow moved.

Jonathan, she senses from the red-hot thrum of his thoughts, is only concerned with the blood in his hands.

Then Dracula at last holds his glass before him, letting it glint and gleam in the candlelight before drinking it down in one go. Jonathan does the same; his eyes close and his mouth curls about the rim and remain so latched until his tongue has snaked out to finish collecting the dregs. When they reopen, they're sharp, blood-filled and blown-out.

It's only Agatha who hesitates. Despite the mounting tumult of hunger in her guts, the urgency of her salivating mouth, she thinks that this of all things marks the point from which there is no return.

Dracula tilts his head, ever watchful. "Go ahead, Agatha," he says.

For another moment, she holds. But the desire for blood is so very great.

"Have your first taste." Again, Dracula's smooth drawl—now coupled with the tingling, fever-bright touch of Jonathan's anticipation. "Do it."

And, God help her, she does.


	2. Chapter 2

Jonathan wakes with a cry of panic, his hands shooting up and out against the hard enclosure of—of _what_ exactly? Where in God's name _is_ he? It's too close, far too tight—

But then, the dark wall above him peels away, revealing the smiling, moon-pale face of his lord. He moves forward to hold Jonathan's fists back before they can lash out against him, saying, "Shh," so gently that Jonathan can't help but comply, go still and hold Dracula's eye and draw in a lungful of earth-scented air. Then: "I have you, Johnny. You're all right."

Jonathan nods. Yes. He _is_ all right, isn't he? He's spent the day in his own coffin, after all, and is feeling more refreshed from sleep than he has in so very long. "I—I'm sorry—" he says, but it's hard to get the words out in the order he means to. He hopes that Dracula will instead simply reach into his splayed-open mind and pluck out the feeling of his terror as it dissolves into relief.

Dracula nods knowingly and releases Jonathan's hands. "Come on, let's get you out of here." He helps Jonathan up, and Jonathan sighs, the crypt and the multiple coffins residing herein a welcome sight after all those nights spent alone in his cell.

Then he remembers: "Agatha! Is she..."

"She's fine," Dracula reassures him. "More than fine, in fact. She rose shortly after sunset and is now knee-deep in manuscripts in our library." His eyes narrow. "Are you able to sense her?"

Jonathan swallows and reaches tentatively out – _Agatha?_ – and then sighs to feel her warm, gentle touch in return. He smiles. "Yes," he says. And again, "She's reading a treatise on medieval necromancy."

Dracula laughs. "See? That's one of yours, isn't it? She's quite at home already," he says. Then he takes Jonathan's hand and gives it a squeeze, making Jonathan shiver. "As you will be again, Johnny."

"Thank you, my lord," Jonathan says with deep earnestness, despite everything—for was he not kept away by Dracula's will alone? But then, no: it was Jonathan who erred and Dracula who had mercy on him. He allows himself to be led upstairs where a bath – and fresh clothing, by God, how he's missed it – await him.

Off comes the tunic Dracula gave him in exchange for his tatters that morning, over his shoulders and onto the floor, leaving him staring down at his own naked body.

He's pale almost to the point of translucency—save for the sores and welts and brises which here and there stretch across his skin in raised, ruddy patterns. Places where, lost in dreams and blood-starved delirium, he'd injured himself. Scars even his prodigious vampiric physiology has struggled to repair.

Beneath, he can clearly make out the intricate network of his pale blue veins, as well as bones which are more prominent than he ever remembers them being before. All hard angles and jutting knobs. Lean and bony fingers tipped in scabs where he'd ground down his claws. Ribs that can be counted in a glance.

He doesn't need a mirror to know that his face must be similarly ravaged. And if the thatches on his chest and at his groin are any indication, whatever hair he has left had its ginger supplanted by white.

Standing before his lord, ever the portrait of immaculate masculinity, he feels self-conscious. Unworthy. Reviled, even as he longs for Dracula's touch.

But Dracula is shaking his head. "Now, now, Johnny," he says, cupping Jonathan's cheek in his long, cool hand. "None of that. You oughtn't be so _hard_ on yourself. You've been through such an awful lot, and we'll have you well again before long. All right?"

Jonathan swallows dryly. Then he nods.

"Good," says Dracula, guiding Jonathan towards the tub. "In you get."

The water is almost too warm. Jonathan shudders, doing his best to acclimate as Dracula lathers up a bar of scented soap and begins to wash him. Long tendrils of blood and dirt and who knows what else streak from his skin, tangling and twisting in the suds.

Jonathan has Dracula's concentration. Yet likewise, he recognizes the faraway look in Dracula's eyes which indicates nothing if not that his mind is click-clacking away, busily sussing something out. Then his mouth curls in a slow smile. And Jonathan shivers, recognizing this too: he's come to a decision. A next move which Jonathan has so often felt the brunt of, and which now ought to send him into urgent resistance—or flight.

But oh, it's easy to be unwound by Dracula's ministrations. His lord knows his body so well. Every line and curve, each place where even the barest touch will leave him whimpering.

But it's the sudden intrusion of Dracula's outstretched arm, his wrist gnashed open and dripping wet with blood, that makes Jonathan moan.

"Now, Johnny," Dracula commands. " _Drink_."

Jonathan doesn't have to be told twice. Hunger crests and crashes within him like a wave, and at once he's fastening his hands on Dracula's arm, bracketing the wound, and setting his mouth over it, and _God_ , it's so fucking _good_ , he can scarcely believe—

Because Dracula has never before offered him this gift. Not like this. No more than a drop or two, an errant taste permitted and taken when they nipped each other during a row, or when his fang nicked Dracula's tongue during sex.

But now— _Now_ —

The flavor is at once dark and ruddy and impossibly complex, so full of death, of a thousand thousand _lives_ and a thousand thousand more, beating back like a drum, like a _pulse_ through Dracula's half-millennium-long existence.

And within the vast, crimson plane of their shared mindscape, his lord fractures.

Jonathan sees Dracula in full armor, already a giant among men in the heady days of his mortal life, now grown impossibly huge atop his mount. He's riding into battle, and how his enemies quiver at the sight of him, knowing unequivocally that he will _end_ them. A legend made flesh.

He sees Dracula in the first throes of his undead rebirth. Feels raw power running through him like molten rock, like iron forged and shaped for no other reason than to bring about destruction. Fathoms hunger like he's never known, thirst which cannot – _will_ not – be quenched. Knows the sheer beauty of the night.

He sees Dracula and the brides which preceded him. So few of them more than beasts, possessed of naught but appetite and minds driven half-mad with the enormity of Dracula's will—

His _want_. His isolation and anger which drive him to again and again attempt to create a worthy mate, a companion, a creature like himself.

Jonathan sees Dracula... and through Dracula's eyes, sees himself. Just a pretty little trifle at first. A delicious morsel to be drained and discarded like so many others before. But then he holds his ground. And he rises _well_ , and oh, he's not like the others after all. No. Jonathan Harker is like _him_ and will be _his_.

He sees how the pain Dracula inflicts on him is run-through with fierce, insatiable desire, a need to _keep_ him.

He sees that desire expand, and Agatha shift into view. Ah, how Dracula wants her too.

And beneath it all, within and without, the darkness is pierced through with _light_ , the eternal sun, its visage obsessively plundered from every mind Dracula has absorbed. Sunrises and sunsets and hours in-between, each red and orange and yellow and lavender hue bound into a single burning, pulsating mass and held in the center of Dracula's unbeating heart like some treacherous secret, exquisite and terrible in equal measure.

 _Why?_ Jonathan thinks now, astonished.

Dracula's laughter ripples through his mind. _Do you think Satan abandoned his memories of the Kingdom even though he was forever denied reentry?_

_I—I think he thought of little else._

_Yes._

_You miss it, then._

_Yes, Johnny. Like nothing which has come before or after._

And it's too much—far too much. Jonathan thinks he might be consumed, here and now reduced to ash in those searing rays. Scattered like dust in the unseen wind. But first, he wants to surrender something of himself. He needs to give Dracula _this_ : what the lawyer saw. The last glimpse he had of that red, red sun setting over the Carpathians.

 _Thank you, Johnny,_ Dracula says, and Jonathan can make out the shiver of pure pleasure which gilds the words; the glimmer of triumph, as clean and deadly as the blade of a knife. And then: _Now, come for me. You're so close..._

With a jolt, Jonathan is once more aware of his body. The feel of Dracula's blood streaming down his throat. The weight of Dracula's gleaming red gaze. The pressure of Dracula's hand on his cock, having already worked him to hardness, now coaxing him over the edge. Then he lets out a long, shuddering groan as his orgasm rips through him, blasting his vision into a field of stars.

After a long moment, Dracula extracts his arm from Jonathan's slackening grip. Within seconds, the wound begins to close. Dracula splashes water over himself to clean away the remnants, revealing once more unblemished skin.

Then he leans in to kiss Jonathan's cheek, his lips; to lick his tears away with the tip of his tongue; to brush the hair back from his brow. He smiles fondly. "Ah. I wasn't sure if that was going to work," he says. "And yet here you are."

Jonathan blinks up at him, puzzled. "You mean..."

"Yes, Johnny. Looking better already," Dracula says. "Almost good enough to _eat_."

*

By the time Jonathan gets dressed and makes his way outside to the courtyard, Agatha is already there waiting for him. She tilts her head in greeting, tall and graceful in her midnight blue frock, not at all a bad match for his own suit and waistcoat. Idly, he supposes that this must be because Dracula has dressed them both.

It isn't the greatest of trespasses. Jonathan is grateful for the fine, clean feeling of cotton and wool against his skin which, while remarkably healed, is still more sensitive than normal, as though touch-warmed and scoured.

Besides, he wanted to look more like himself when he saw Agatha again. He'd been the one to reach out to her. Tugged gently upon their mental tether and asked her if she might like to join him, to talk— _Yes_ , came her immediate reply, _Yes, Jonathan_ , as if she'd been waiting for this very invitation.

He's still amazed by the burgeoning connection between them, so different than the often one-sided one he shares with Dracula. The _closeness_ , as sure and steady as her hand in his when he offers it to her now.

It's a clear night, and the stars stretch above their heads in a wide swath. The moon waxes gibbous. And the air is damp and cool enough to produce a thin layer of frost over the dormant rosebushes.

Jonathan sucks in a breath, savoring the fragrance of it, rich and thick with loamy decay. Then he says, "When I rose and you weren't there—I—I feared the worst. That something had gone wrong with your... transformation."

"Ah." Agatha shakes her head, incredulous. "That, at least, has been quite effectual."

"Then what—"

" _Everything_ , Jonathan. I woke tonight to the pounding of hooves on cobblestone—or so I thought. Do you know, it was actually the sound of a spider spinning a web to the far side of the crypt?" she asks, teeth bared in a grimace that reveals her delicate, elegant – and very _sharp_ – fangs. "I woke tonight without pain in my joints for the first time in years. Without having to convince myself of my own vitality before forcing my limbs into motion. No: I've nothing _but_ vitality now.

"I woke tonight with a hunger in my belly the likes of which I've never known, and the Count was there at my side with his glass and his bottle, ready to sate it. And by God, I _loved_ him for it."

Jonathan bows his head in understanding. "It's a lot to take in, at first," he says. "The abundance of sensation. The hunger. I struggled with these things as well."

"And now?"

Jonathan hesitates. Then: "Give yourself time, Agatha. It's only natural to be overwhelmed. But I—I could try to _help_ you. Teach you. If you'd like."

"I would," Agatha says. Then she tilts her head, considering him. "You look different, Jonathan."

"Yes." Jonathan smiles softly. "Dracula sated my hunger tonight too." And he's glad she doesn't press him on the matter; that she doesn't ask him whether he loves him for it.

Agatha turns her face back towards the sky, her eyes wide and shining in the moonlight. "I can smell the back of the wind, Jonathan. I can see a thousand colors within the depth of the night. I can hear, and _feel_ , the din of London as if I were standing in the middle of Piccadilly Circus. I never thought there would be so _much_."

"No," Jonathan tells her. And he's nearly in tears, so too struck by her beauty and the dark silhouettes of bare trees against the darker landscape and the thrilling heat of Dracula's blood running through his veins. Perhaps it has never stopped being overwhelming. But how he's missed it, all of it, every little thing that was denied him. And so: "There's _more_."


	3. Chapter 3

Beast, Agatha has so often called the Count. Thrown the name at him with disdain as well as humor; a challenge as much as an accusation. _Beast_. The wolf in man's clothing. The wild thing residing just beneath the polished façade.

As if this is an oddity rather than something which is true, in varying degree, of all human beings.

As if there isn't so too something within her, hungry and clamoring for more knowledge, more insight, more command—more time. Simply _more_.

As if she doesn't feel it paw at her guts at the mere sight of him, recognizing a newfound kinship – reacting in anticipation and arousal – and a tremor doesn't skirt up her spine when he says, "Tomorrow, we shall hunt."

They're seated together at the broad mahogany table which dominates the otherwise sparsely furnished dining room, Dracula at the head and Agatha and Jonathan flanking his sides. A fire roars blue-hot in the hearth. And a bottle of blood, almost empty, such a small amount to split into thirds, sits between them.

Jonathan has already drained his glass. Agatha can sense his wavering resolve as he considers how lovely it would be to drag his finger round the rim to collect the drippings, and she's once again shocked by the closeness of his mind, the familiarity of his presence. 

Does he even realize how unguarded he's become—how he lays spread open to all who would care to look? He too is aroused, watching Dracula's mouth, the muscles of his throat, as he takes a measured sip. Then he looks to Agatha, who pointedly has yet to touch hers.

 _What is it?_ he asks, the projection of his voice a tickle in her mind. _Are you well?_

 _Perfectly_ , she tells him.

_Then why—_

"Perhaps there's something you wish to share with the rest of the class," Dracula cuts in, his mouth stretching in a smile which does reach his eyes, though menacingly so, like a cat with a couple of fat mice in its grasp. "Agatha? Johnny: do tell."

And of course, his words are meant to leave no room for argument—which is why Agatha cannot help but do so. "Although it no doubt amuses you to treat Jonathan and myself as vassals, or some lesser artifacts of your own person," she says, staring him down, returning his smile, excited by the confrontation, "I hope you'll appreciate sooner rather than later that it is not a role I'm willing to assume, nor one which Jonathan, I believe, wishes to keep."

"Indeed," Dracula says shortly. He looks at Jonathan, arching a brow, and then back to Agatha. "You do know that if it wasn't for me, both of you would be dead right now?"

"By your own hand."

"And by my hand, you are free to enjoy the fruits of the world. To know your true nature. To revel in the unlikely fact of your existence. Strength, speed, longevity: these all are yours. You will come to know the night more completely than any mortal human knows the day. You have at your beckon call the knowledge of all to whom you'd lay claim.

"This blood," Dracula pauses his low, lilting speech to gesture at the bottle and glasses before them, "belonged to a scholar of history. A philosopher. A mind of undeniable potency plucked at the peak of brilliance which now is ours. _Yours_ , Agatha." He tips his glass and drinks it down with aplomb. Then, after a pause: "Magnificent... Wouldn't you agree, Johnny?"

Jonathan hesitates. Then: "It's very good, my lord."

"But don't take our word for it, Agatha."

Agatha huffs out a breath, a human habit she has no desire to shed. And then, watching her watching him, she swallows down the life—the life—the _life_. Drowns in all the joys and miseries and moments which in their vibrant whole made up the length and breadth of this man who had died without fear, without pain, in Dracula's arms. This man, whose essence was preserved and bottled for their survival as well as their edification.

How can it be? How is any of this _possible_?

Her curiosity, freshly piqued; the groan which issues from her lips; the burning glow circuiting through her veins—these cannot be helped. But this can: "I will not let it go to waste."

"Yes, do _enjoy_ him. That's very good, my dear. You're catching on so quickly," Dracula laughs and pushes his chair backward from the table. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've certain business interests which have rather gone to pot of late. No getting into trouble while I'm out, eh?"

Jonathan speaks up first, deferentially bowing his head, "No, my lord."

 _Beast_ , Agatha repeats to herself, feeling her own relax within her, for the time appeased by the fullness in her belly—and the praise which still rings in her ears.

*

The laboratory is better equipped than Agatha could have hoped.

It's also home to a preponderance of flies.

She grimaces and moves to swat them from where they're congregated on the workbench before Jonathan gently stops her. "Have patience with them," he says. "They mean us no harm, and besides, this place could do with a bit of airing out."

"Yes," she offers, wondering whether such specific leniency is one of Jonathan's idiosyncrasies or something universal of their kind—and suddenly aware of how much she has yet to learn about her new life, "of course." And once both her lungs and the space around her are filled with crisp, calm air, and the flies begin to escape out from the open windows, she sees the truth in his words.

They set a record on the gramophone and spend the next couple of hours cleaning, recalibrating, and resetting a dozen or more of the scientific instruments Jonathan had procured to conduct his research into the nature of vampirism.

It feels good to perform manual labor. Scrubbing and scouring comes naturally to Agatha after so many years in the convent, and the repetitive movements ground her mind to her body in a comfortable synchronization she's struggled to find in the days since she awoke in her coffin.

It likewise feels good to spend time in a proper laboratory after the months she'd had access to little but the bare essentials, to say nothing of the limitations set by her mental and physical exhaustion—though transcribing the symptoms of her death, at least, had been easy enough.

Here, there are all the standard pieces – tubes and piping and phials, syringes and flasks, a variety scopes and lenses, a gas burner, crucibles, mortars, and more – whose use has become second nature to Agatha, as well several decidedly more esoteric devices from America, India, and Arabia. Agatha enjoys examining these and speculating on their purpose before accepting Jonathan's more detailed explanations.

To at long last place a bead of her transformed blood on a slide and view it beneath the microscope is nothing less than thrilling.

She still has the last couple of samples she'd drawn from her tender, human vein, and spends a while comparing these to the new one, taking notes in her diary while Jonathan prepares a couple of tinctures which expedite the separation of the leukocytes and red cells.

She also has the sample she demanded of Dracula and is pleased if unsurprised to observe that it's every bit as animated as it was when he supplied it—

As well as the phial of grossly degraded blood she'd at the time supposed must have come from a revenant, but now plainly knows to be Jonathan's. She feels the flutter of his dismay as he blinks down at it through the microscope's lens, then touches his shoulder. "Let's take a break," she says, and when he nods, walks with him into the courtyard.

For several long minutes, they sit in silence, still amongst the overgrowth.

And then: "Come spring, the air will smell of roses. It's quite heavenly, really," Jonathan says. "I—I often come out here to collect my thoughts, or..." he trails off, shutting his eyes with a grimace. "I was sitting here when he—when he _took_ me. The night he used me to get to you."

Agatha takes his hand and squeezes it. She doesn't prompt him to continue. She simply waits, sensing his need to disclose.

"I don't recall everything that happened, save for how very frightened I was for you, and how much it hurt—it hurt so _badly_ that I thought I was dying." Jonathan lets out a little laugh. "Well. Dying _again_. And I would have welcomed such a fate if it meant an end to the agony, a cessation of the stretch of him, the pressure he placed _inside_ me. 

"It was as though he'd hollowed me out, and what he refilled me with was so consuming and insidious that I thought it couldn't merely have been _him_ , but rather like— _insects_. A multitude of insects clawing, chittering, walking beneath the surface of my skin." At last Jonathan meets Agatha's eye. "When he...left me. When he left me locked away, I was at least grateful to no longer be in that sort of pain."

"But you went without..."

"Blood," Jonathan agrees. "Yes. I was always so very hungry. But he granted me some mercies. He could so easily have killed me, you know, but he set me free. In time, once I came to realize how—how I'd wronged him, and how I might... assist in your turning. He helped me recover. And he's... been gentle with you, Agatha. He's taken _care_ with you."

Agatha can neither confirm nor deny this. She can see how Dracula has tormented Jonathan; corrupted him. She wishes to offer comfort. She doesn't want to cause him further distress. Yet her desire for knowledge is too strong to be stifled for long, and so she ventures, "How did he do it? How did he enter you?"

Jonathan hesitates. Then: "He took the form of a mist."

"Is this an ability that all our kind possess?"

"I don't," says Jonathan. "Or, I should say, I haven't. But I've lately come to realize how many of my limitations as a vampire have been self-inflicted. Perhaps I thought that in so doing, I would hold on to more of the man I once was."

Of course, he isn't wrong, for even the smallest or most benign of preternatural abilities reveal nothing if not that vampires are quite a different order of being than humans. And yet...

"You think me a fool," Jonathan says wryly. "I can sense it in you."

Agatha shakes her head. "No, Jonathan. It's more that—Well. As was inscribed at the Temple of Apollo at Delphi: _know thyself_. We can't truly understand what it means to exist as vampires if there are parts of ourselves which we either bury or ignore. Or worse, neglect, lest they metamorphosize into something quite unrecognizable."

"Or uncontrollable. You'll hunt tomorrow, then. You'll—"

"I am determined to know myself, Jonathan. Weakness as well as strength."

"Such bravery, Agatha. You're far more cut out for this than I've ever been," he says. Then he stands and motions for her to follow him to the side of the manor where he sets her hand – palm outward and fingers splayed – against the cool masonry. "Can you feel it? Can you hear the stone call out to you?"

"Yes," Agatha says, amazed to indeed perceive a subtle vibration beneath her fingertips.

Jonathan grins, wide and with genuine warmth—and also, in showing off his fangs, distinctly sharp. "Good," he says. "Let it guide you."

With that, he begins to scale the side of the ancient keep, all four limbs working, quickly shifting in unison in such a way as to bring to mind a great dark lizard. There's something grotesque to the sight. Disquietingly unnatural.

But also beautiful: Jonathan is for once in control, fully inhabiting his own body. It's only natural for Agatha to follow his lead—and God, she's never experienced such fluidity of movement, such sureness and speed. It's absolutely exhilarating.

Together, they sit on one of the slant-shingled turrets and watch the sky purple with the oncoming dawn. It's less than an hour away when they spot Dracula's automobile round the corner and rattle down the driveway. He parks and gazes up at them, a rueful smile playing at his lips, before he retreats inside.

"Perhaps we should retire," Jonathan suggests, clenching and unclenching his hands.

Agatha shakes her head, feeling oddly warmed by the brief encounter. Happily defiant. "No," she says. "Not yet."

*

The blood is rich and ruddy and _wet_ in Agatha's nostrils—her _mouth_ —

At once, upon sinking her fangs into that supple, fleshy juncture between neck and shoulder, she's transported into a crimson-hued mindscape; bolstered, washed out and thrown asunder in ruby red ether.

She feels Jonathan and Dracula beside her. Their minds are so near to her own, fixed points in a plane of raw dreamstuff, twin pulses which resonate through every vein. Each sinew strung out in delicious agony until she isn't quite sure where she stops and her makers begin.

It's an absurd, heady notion, and of course only a result of blood-drunkenness, or the constant _thrump-thrump-thrumping_ that's clouded her thoughts, but still she'd no idea it could be like this. She didn't realize it would feel so _good_.

And she _knows_ this man – their shared victim – with more veracity than she thought possible, his life impossibly _brighter_ than what she's heretofore gleaned from the bottles from Dracula's stores. She sups his blood like the most tempting elixir ever concocted.

Then: _Agatha._

Who's speaking? She cannot be certain, and so she pays the word little mind.

Again: _Agatha, you must stop._

Stop? _Stop?_ The very thought is preposterous. For one, she doesn't exactly know _how_ to do so. But so too she doesn't _want_ to, not now, even as Dracula and Jonathan together pull her back from the drained corpse.

"Easy," the close, solid timbre of Jonathan's voice cleaves through her delirium. The steadiness of his hand against hers. "It's all right. We have you, Agatha."

She glances up at him, meeting his blown out, red-rimmed eyes. There's blood on his breath, on his teeth, but his face is otherwise unblemished.

Belatedly, she realizes that the same is not true for herself.

Belatedly, she realizes that she's weeping.

And she knows these things because Dracula has leaned in to lick the tears from her cheeks and the blood from her lips, whisper, "Beautiful, my dear Agatha. Simply beautiful," and kiss her, sweetly, with so much more gentleness than her imaginings have led her to expect.

" _Beast_ ," she replies, leaning into him, and is not sorry—

Not yet.


	4. Chapter 4

There are three things Jonathan immediately discovers upon becoming a wolf.

One: the act is brought about by will alone. There are no words or incantations. No mandatory conditions. Under Dracula's direction, he – and Agatha beside him, all three of them naked and unashamed, pale as polished alabaster in the bright light of the moon – reaches into the deepest recesses of his being and draws out a singular sense of purpose. No matter what form a vampire assumes at any given time, Dracula tells them, he can be nothing if not essentially himself. And in so knowing, he can become _other_.

Two: the process is acutely painful. Every inch of skin, each bone, muscle, and sinew must stretch, bend, and reform. Reshape into something quite unlike a man; sprout lengths of coarse fur; grow a jaw full of sharp teeth and a long, expressive tail. And Jonathan had no _idea_ how exquisite this agony could be—not really, for in the decade since Dracula took him as a bride, he's only ever allowed himself to witness the aftermath: the wolf or the gore-slick man who crawled from its skin.

Three: the result is no mere illusion. Jonathan possesses his own thoughts and memories and desires. But so too, he feels an ever-growing thrum within the cool panes of his canine skull which compels him to sniff the air and lick his chops and run, run, _run_ within this pack of three, out from the courtyard and into the manicured countryside. He feels awe and reverence for the beast before him who now raises his huge, black head and _howls_. Guiding them. Commanding them. And this is Dracula, his lord.

The urge to follow him is unsurmountable.

And so Jonathan follows.

*

_Earlier_

Agatha and Jonathan's first slate of experiments prove most promising.

Bolstered by the mental tether they share between them, it's easy to rekindle the work patterns they'd developed months earlier when Jonathan paid frequent clandestine – or so he thought, for of course Dracula would come to know all – visits to Agatha's Kensington flat, and with each passing week, they make greater progress into deciphering their undead blood—and Dracula's.

Dracula, for his part, doesn't interfere.

Yet Jonathan senses Agatha's desire for more. Under their lord's guidance, she's begun to seek out victims who might extend her expertise of varied and refined subjects in history, mysticism, and science, as well as those who might lend her their mastery of a new language: delving into a heretofore undecipherable text becomes a great pleasure to her, and Jonathan cannot bring himself to argue with this, not really, not when the results are clear.

And he himself has nearly exhausted the extent of his own knowledge into their condition. For so long, the lack thereof had been something of a point of honor to him, a link to his lost humanity, but Agatha's continual instance that he should better understand himself holds merit. How can he expect to subsist – let alone thrive within this ever-evolving new era – if he refuses to employ all the tools at his disposal?

"Come," she says now, extending a hand to him. When he takes it, her grip is cool and dry and firm. "He's agreed to show us something new tonight."

"How he takes the form of a wolf, you mean."

"That's right."

Jonathan hesitates. Of all of Dracula's gifts, none provoke such apprehension, so much fear and uncertainty in him as this. And he's seen... how the act _excites_ Dracula; he's experienced the passions it provokes in him firsthand.

And so what if the same proves too much for Jonathan? Too shocking, too wild?

Too good?

Of course, he and Agatha have discussed it at length. He has, in theory, already agreed to attend such a lesson, whenever one should occur—he simply didn't expect it to come so soon. "I don't know, Agatha," he says. "I simply can't..."

"Can't, or won't? _Trust_ yourself, Jonathan."

"I do, it's only that—"

"Prove it. Become the being you're meant to be."

"You sound like him," Jonathan says, softly, after a moment.

"Perhaps, in this instance, he is correct." Agatha tilts her head, her clear, clever gaze immeasurably patient. He remembers sitting in her flat, confessing everything. He remembers taking her in his arms and, by Dracula's direction, draining her to the point of death. That after all that has occurred, she should still deem him worthy of her regard astounds him. 

"Besides," she continues wryly, "haven't you ever wondered what shade of color your coat will be?"

Jonathan sighs. Then he smiles, despite himself, and hopes he can keep the tremor out of his voice. "Well, when you put it that way."

Together, they make their way out of the laboratory and into the courtyard—

Where Dracula awaits.

If he's surprised to see Jonathan and Agatha both, he makes no sign of it, opening his arms in greeting. Then he undoes his tie, unbuttons his crisp white shirt, and begins to make a neat pile of shed articles atop the balustrade. "No sense in ruining a perfectly good suit of clothes," he tells them, and Jonathan falters for a moment – his eyes traveling over Dracula's naked form, his strong limbs and lean musculature limned in silvery light – before following suit.

Agatha, standing to his side, is already down to her shift—and then that too goes over her shoulders. She runs her hands up and down her arms in an affectation of warding off the chill, but in fact she's only enjoying the feel of the breeze on her bare flesh.

And this, Jonathan must admit, is indeed a rather magnificent sensation.

Dracula smiles. "Very good," he says. "Now, I want you to listen to my instructions very carefully, lest I end up with a couple of stoats for companions..."

Jonathan does as Dracula commands, and in a matter of mere – excruciating, wonderful –minutes drawn out in such a way that time has little meaning, he has taken the form of a wolf: not as large as Dracula, nor as lithe as Agatha, but strong and steady and fast, nonetheless, with large paws and a long tail and a coppery grey coat.

Then Dracula's voice echoes deep within his brain: _Oh, my beauties. My very dearest ones. How utterly delicious it is to see you like this._

Jonathan turns to see Agatha, alert and brimming with intelligence, maw open in a knife-sharp grin. Her coat is also grey, though of a darker shade than his own, gleaming like polished steel. He shivers to feel the answering frisson of her excitement, of Dracula's pleasure, of the full, welcome reverberation of their shared connection which says nothing if not, _At last._

_Are you well, Jonathan?_ she asks him.

_Yes,_ he answers. _Yes._

By Dracula's will, they bound through the woods, over ice-crusted creek beds and winter-brown fields, and the myriad aromas, the rhythmic, primordial energy humming between them is enough to make Jonathan curse himself for waiting until now to accept this aspect of himself.

No matter. Now there's nothing but Agatha, exploratory, exultant, running along ahead but remaining so impossibly close. And closer still: Dracula's fathomless gaze meeting Jonathan's own.

Dracula's wide, damp nostrils quivering to take in his scent.

Dracula's huge jaws nipping at his sides, his scruff, until the two of them are scrapping in earnest, dark and joyful and heated. Jonathan barks and yips. Nips back at him. Howls, more contented than he has been in so very long—ignited, bright as a flame in the darkness, burning from within.

*

"Might I tempt you to a nightcap?"

Warmth rises in Jonathan's chest as he looks up to see Dracula in the doorway, a bottle and two glasses in his hands.

After they shed their wolfskins in the narrow band of woods surrounding Carfax – a visceral, raw, but not altogether unpleasant experience, Jonathan was abashed to admit – he and Agatha fell into a relieved, blood-soaked embrace as Dracula grinned and stroked their backs, then leaned in to whisper in Jonathan's ear, "I'll call on you later, Johnny."

If Agatha heard him, or noticed Jonathan's well-pleased shiver in response, she made no mention of it, instead excitedly explaining her plans to spend the rest of the night recording her observations.

Jonathan meanwhile retreated inside the manor to bathe—and regain his bearings. Then he slipped into a dressing gown and padded to his sitting room, light a fire, and settled down with the copy of _Moby Dick_ he's lately been working his way through.

That he should now fail to sense Dracula's approach despite knowing its imminence is a testament to how enraptured he is by the story, though so too perhaps it's that his thoughts are still mired in the sheer abandon he'd experienced that night. The sense of _bliss_ which alarms him as much as it awes.

The unhindered adoration he feels for this creature who robbed him of his life as well as his death: Count Dracula—

His lord. Resplendent, silhouetted by the hallway lamp and golden in the flickering glow of the hearth, presently arching a brow as if to say, _Well?_ And Jonathan cannot help but nod and set his book aside, inviting him to take a seat beside him on the settee.

Dracula fills Jonathan's glass, then his own, and a tendril of blood dribbles down the neck of the bottle. He nimbly shifts his thumb to collect it, then licks it away. Jonathan watches the pink tip of his tongue retreat into his mouth as he says, "Waste not," his lips parting in a wicked smile.

"Yes." The scent of it makes Jonathan's fangs tingle with anticipation, and he takes a long, slow sip. Savors it. Then: "Thank you."

Dracula nods and sets the bottle aside before crossing his long legs before him. "You did well tonight," he says, matter-of-factly. "As did Agatha. She's really something, isn't she? Already becoming as a fine a vampire as one could hope."

Jonathan agrees with his lord. Certainly, he does. He's so very _glad_ to have Agatha with them. And Hell, he doubts he would have dared to stretch his powers so boldly as he did tonight if it wasn't for her. It's with this in mind that he ventures, "She's better than I've ever been."

"Come, Johnny. I've told you time and again: you needn't be so hard on yourself."

Jonathan tilts his head. "Not when I've you to do so for me, you mean. When I deserve punishment."

"Discipline," Dracula corrects, arching a brow. There's a lilting quality to his voice, though it scarcely dims the seriousness of his words. "You realize I might have killed you rather than lock you away. But I didn't. That's something to be thankful for, isn't it?"

Jonathan takes another drink. He feels splayed open, as sensitive as a raw nerve; but so too somehow soothed by Dracula's presence. Comfortable in a way he thought unobtainable to him. And so: "A year ago, I would have said it wasn't."

"And now? Johnny, you've more potential in your little finger than even the most capable human," Dracula says. "My methods may at times seem strict. But I no more wish to see you gone from my side than I would Agatha, now." His hand slides over the brocade cushion to envelop into Jonathan's own. "She was destined for this life, you realize. In her own way, she _welcomed_ it. But then, I think you understand this more than you let on. You've tasted her blood, Johnny. You know what's in her heart.

"Tell me: do you not think it better to learn to embrace your nature, as she already has in her short time with us, rather than squander it for another decade? Another two?" By now Dracula has leaned forward, breached the space between them to set his hand on Jonathan's thigh. "How long, Johnny? How long will it be before you to see yourself the way I do?"

Jonathan swallows, trembling at the contact, his mouth suddenly dry. "And how—how is that?"

"Lethal. Lovely. A thing of beauty. From the moment you woke from death on my castle battlement—rose _well_ , unlike all those who came before you, you've been nothing less. Even when you sneered at me, when we've fought—Well. Especially when we fight, and you're full of the old spark that first drew me to you, you're nothing if not a bloody sight to behold."

And Jonathan thinks: _He made a killer of me._

And he thinks: _He cut open his own vein to heal me._

He thinks of how it felt to run on four legs instead of two, to call and be called, to follow.

He thinks that in those hours, he'd been drawn nearer to Dracula than ever before, tugged into his orbit like a planet round a star; he thinks that Dracula must have felt it as well. And so, he thinks: _How I've missed him._

How he _wants_ him.

Plucking all of this from Jonathan's mind – Jonathan, for his part, unperturbed by Dracula's presence within his most intimate innerworkings – Dracula smiles and says, "And I you, Johnny." His breath is ghosting across Jonathan's cheek. When did he get so close? Then: "Yes, I felt it. I felt you. And I would have you in my bed tonight." 

Moving on instinct alone, Jonathan leans forward and whispers, "Please."

"Please, what?"

"Take me."

Dracula doesn't have to be asked twice. Nimbly, he lifts Jonathan from the settee and carries him out of the room, down the hall, and into what for so many years served as their marital chamber.

The hearth, Jonathan doesn't fail to note, is already lit, as if it was a foregone conclusion that the room would see use tonight.

And, perhaps, so it was.

In the deepest corners of his mind, and the darkest parts of his heart, he's longed for this.

Dracula is dressed in naught but shirtsleeves and trousers; these are as easily dispensed of as Jonathan's dressing gown. Before long, they're naked, stretched out together on the wide, canopied bed, Dracula looming over Jonathan, set neatly within the cradle of his legs. Their cocks now and again rub against each in that lovely, familiar way that makes Jonathan's breath hitch in his throat.

Then: "I would taste you, Jonathan Harker," Dracula growls, each word falling on Jonathan's ear in a cool puff.

"Yes, please," Jonathan gasps to hear Dracula call him by his full name. What a pleasure it is to be so known. And to know: to run his hands up Dracula's arms and better feel the inhuman strength beneath his muscles and bones before threading his hands together about Dracula's neck. Again: " _Please_ , my lord."

Dracula leans in and sets his mouth over Jonathan's, probing at his lips with the tip of his tongue before Jonathan opens to him fully. And it's as if Jonathan is concocted of some rare drought, or is a treasure which must be plundered: such is Dracula's single-minded possession of him.

Then, when Jonathan drags his tongue over Dracula's fang to draw his own blood, Dracula moans and surges against him. Tastes him, drinks him down, delves into his mouth as his long hand reaches between them to pull their cocks together in his fist, flesh against straining flesh.

Jonathan groans and rocks into the sudden, gorgeous sensation of Dracula's touch. He strokes them in twain, taking control of them both, twinning them, amplifying their pleasure until it sings white-hot between them.

Until it singes away the remnants of Jonathan's apprehension, all his pain and fear—and it's this very notion that sends him over the edge. In a moment, he's spilling across his own belly and chest. "Oh, God," he gasps, "oh, my lord."

"Say it, Johnny. Give voice to what your blood has long known."

" _Dracula_. Dracula is my master. Dracula will be obeyed."

Dracula grins and licks a dribble of come from Jonathan's cheek, easing Jonathan through his aftershocks before taking his own pleasure.

His gaze is bright, his eyes are so very red.

"Yes. There you are. There's my Johnny." He leans in for another sharp, biting kiss, and then he's coming too, growling, still driving into his own grip and against Jonathan's body as he spends in generous ropes between them.

A long, still moment passes before Jonathan shifts to accept Dracula's full weight in his arms, his hands dropping from his nape to stroke up and down his back. He sets his nose against Dracula's skin, imagining he can still make out the musky scent of the wolf.

"Mm." Dracula disentangles himself from Jonathan's hold, settling to the side, and stares at him—really _sees_ him. Then he rumbles, dangerous and low, "I've felt a shift in you tonight, Johnny: you look upon me without fear."

Jonathan, taken aback, searches Dracula's face for any indication of how he's expected to reply. He's feeling emptied of worry and doubt, relaxed to the point of inhibition.

Then, simply: "Do you want me to fear you?" For he recognizes that his station is still fragile. The privileges he's enjoyed since his release might at some point be revoked. There's the possibility that Dracula will see fit to lock him away again, to renew the torment he inflicted on him during those long months, to whittle him down to the barest splinter.

He doesn't wish that upon himself. He likewise dreads to think of Agatha being handled in such a way. So far, her defiance has amused Dracula more than it's irritated—but what would it take for her to truly anger him?

But Dracula simply pauses before shaking his head. He runs his hand down Jonathan's side to settle on the curve of his hip. "No. Not now, anyway. You're far more pleasing to me like this."

Relief, warm and welcome, rises in Jonathan's chest—and then lingers there, though he knows this, the reward of his lord's attention, is bestowed by his own pleasure alone.

And so Jonathan thinks: _To stand in Dracula's light is worth the risk of being cast in his shadow._

And so he must remain, for Agatha's sake as well as his own.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Echo and the Bunnymen <3 My sincere thanks to any and all who read this stuff!
> 
> Say hello @ [argyleheir.tumblr.com](https://argyleheir.tumblr.com/)


End file.
